


Distorted

by penvision



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 09:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6464164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penvision/pseuds/penvision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post DoFP. Twenty two year old Kitty starts to have nightmares. Nightmares involving Bobby.  Rogue is having nightmares of her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She is running, running, running, legs throbbing, lungs stinging; prickling with every breath, fingers locked knuckle white around the tattered sleeve of a man she does not know, the pair phasing through ceaseless brick and mortar that gives way to stone and tile as they travel deeper into long forgotten ruins.

This is the third night that she has had this half dream, half nightmare, knows that she will startle awake as soon as they reach this last wall, squints her eyes shut in preparation. She opens them slowly, expecting the familiar shadowy dark of her room, to find that she and the stranger are in a vast hall held up by seemingly endless rows of columns. She is sure that they are somewhere ancient, this room untouched by humans for hundreds of years. The stranger does not let her slow, his strides easily doubling hers, his pace maddening, her fingers aching where they grasp him. The tile, beautifully hand painted mosaic, shudders beneath their feet as the hall fills with echoes of a distant scream. So, this is a nightmare, then. ‘Wake up wake up wake up wake up…’

They are far into the room when a flash of purple catches her eye. She watches, fascinated, as a portal opens and a crystalline iced figure appears.

He is strikingly familiar, even from a distance, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she tries to place him, but it is not until he speaks that she realizes, “Kitty.”

“Bobby." But not the Bobby she knows, whose ice form is white, covered in a fine frost, whose eyes are always smiling.

She and the stranger slow as they approach and Bobby pauses, preparing to speak, when the unseen ceiling shakes, raining dust and clay on them. His fingers brush against hers as he passes. “Hurry.”

…

The stranger is lying on the stone floor as she kneels at his head, his face between her glowing hands, the two of them encircled by diminished mosaics telling a forgotten legend. ‘What am I doing to you? Why are we here, alone, during a battle? We should be fighting, not hiding. Where’s Bobby? Where are the X-Men?’

The wall to their left shatters outward, stone and tile striking her face, her side, and Bobby’s limp form is flung carelessly into the middle of the room. She watches his face, his chest, wanting to go to him but somehow rooted to the stranger. She feels the faint tickle of blood against her temple, her cheek, her jaw, squirms as it dribbles down her neck. “Bobby…” The man lets out a low moan as a giant… she has no idea what, robot? Alien? Mutant? shoves itself through the hole, primeval stone shattering around it. “Bobby!” He sluggishly lifts his head, blinking away the dust, and their eyes meet. Her heart constricts, she is sure, as the air leaves her lungs. Gone is the mirth, the smirk he wears even in defeat, replaced by sorrow; sorrow and something that she is afraid to name, before they harden as he returns to his ice form. He manages to stand unsteadily just as the giant reaches him and blasts it with ice as its form morphs from steel into red heat. It extends its scorched arm, sweeping out and plucking Bobby from the ground. The room fills with cries of pain, his and hers, as he struggles futilely against the burning heat, before the other arm hurtles into him and he shatters into infinite luminescence.

"Bobby!”

…

She startles awake, a sob trapped in her throat, fingers fumbling blindly over familiar objects cluttering her nightstand as she slowly sits up. Light floods her vision and forces her eyes shut, but Bobby’s face, contorted in pain, is tattooed on the backs of her eyelids. She snaps them open, squinting against the still too bright light, and fists her sheets as she takes in her room. “What the hell was that?”


	2. Chapter 2

She strolls leisurely down the dirt lane lined with fried food and trinket stalls, the midsummer breeze catching the hem of her sundress and warming her bare arms. A trio of children race past her, shrieking with laughter, and she stops to watch them as they sprint for the carnival rides, the steady stream of people continuing their course around her. A country band plays in the distance as two ravens fly overhead. Rogue shields her eyes as she follows their flight when they disappear against the sun and everything turns to white.

She spins, looking for the festival, but finds herself surrounded by infinite white.

“Marie.”

She whips around, “Cody.” The first boy she kissed. And put in a coma. He stands, hands in pockets, looking precisely like he did the day she discovered her powers.

“Why are you ignoring me?”

“What?”

He reaches out, fingers almost brushing skin, and she shifts away, “I’ve been calling out to you. It’s lonely here.”

She shakes her head, confused. “I’ve never heard you.”

He pulls his hand back, face contorted with rage, “you will now! You’ll hear all of us!”

The whiteness fills with figures; X-Men, enemies, people she has known for years, strangers she only met once. “Rogue, stop ignoring us! We need you! Rogue!”

“Stop!” She clutches her head, falling to her knees as the horde presses closer, her name chanted from their lips. “Stop, please!” Forceful hands grab at her, pulling her, and she screams.

…

Rogue opens her eyes, chest heaving, to the dark of her room.

“Rogue…” a voice sighs against her ear. She turns on her lamp, but the room is empty.

…

“Morning.” Kitty unenthusiastically drops her plate and coffee mug down on the overused marked and scored table, wincing at the squeak of her chair as she slides into it. She stifles a yawn and sweeps away a stray wisp of hair tickling her nose, eyes the runny eggs and soggy toast, “who made breakfast?”

Rogue sips at her coffee, nose scrunching at its bitterness. “Kurt again. I keep telling Charles we need to hire a cook but-whoa!”

Bobby looks from his jumbled lesson plan to Rogue, eyebrows raised, follows her gaze to Kitty and frowns. “You look like hell.”

Kitty manages a halfhearted glare at the two of them as she absentmindedly traces the faded X on her mug, “thanks. That means a lot coming from you, scruffy.”

Bobby scratches his recent beard, smirking, “like it or not, the beard’s staying.” Both girls raise their eyebrows expectantly. “The parents… keep thinking I’m a student.”

Kitty snorts into her coffee while Rogue pokes his cheek with a silk finger. “Aw sugar, the world may think you’re fifteen but we both know you’re a man and that’s all that counts.”

“Mockery. That’s what I get for being friends with you two.” He glances back and forth between them. “Mockery and ridicule.”

“That’s just the price you have to pay for our exquisite company,” Rogue’s finger goes from poking his cheek to his chin.

He swats his girlfriend’s hand away, feigning offense even as his lips form a grin, and shifts his gaze from her to Kitty. His eyes lighten with mirth, smile lines crinkling around them. She smirks back, a teasing remark on her tongue, when suddenly his eyes flash, arctic blue replaced by steel, mirth by boundless sadness, and her hand covers her heart as it physically aches, smirk falling from her lips. Rogue and Bobby’s own smiles fade, concern marring their features. “What’s wrong?”

She rubs at her eyes with her free hand, trying to physically scrub the other Bobby from memory. “It’s nothing, just trouble sleeping.” She shrugs a shoulder and sips at her coffee, index finger rubbing over an edge of the X. “Bad dreams, I guess.”

Rogue nods, eyes suddenly distant, prepared to drop the subject, but Bobby presses on, unfinished lesson plans forgotten. “How long?”

She pretends to mull it over. “A couple of nights.”

“What are they about?”

“They’re about” ‘you dying.’ She tries to swallow away the unexpected lump in her throat as infinite ice fragments dance across her eyes. “Nothing, I’m just running. And then I wake up.” She picks at her toast. “Who’s got lunch duty?”

“Not Kurt, thank God.” Bobby looks at his watch, “my trig class starts in ten, I’ll see you two later?” He kisses the back of Rogue’s hand and turns to Kitty, “maybe you should talk to the professor about it.”

She waves the suggestion off, “they’re just dreams. See you at lunch.” He levels an even stare at her, unconvinced, and she sighs in defeat. “If they get worse, I’ll see him. Promise.” He swallows, ready to say something, but she cuts him off, “you’re going to be late.”

Bobby glances at his watch again, “damn it. Ok.” He downs his coffee and heads for the doors.

“Bobby?” He turns to find Kitty and Rogue both smirking at him. Kitty points at his seat. “Lesson plans?”

“Right.” He snatches them and disappears into the hall mumbling about agreeing to teach 8’oclock classes, the sturdy oak doors swinging shut behind him. Rogue watches him go then lets her head fall to the table with a thump. A few lingering students turn to stare as Kitty raises her eyebrows at them, “don’t you all have classes to get to?” She watches them scurry out, heads down. “You don’t look so good, either.” The linguistics professor lets out a groan. “What’s up?”

Rogue lifts her head to reveal one piercing eye. “Bad dreams, like you said.”

…

Rogue makes her way through the crowded hall, dodging and weaving the growing throng of students as she struggles to reach her classroom.

She squeezes past Scott as he nods a greeting. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“You said it.”

He pauses, “said what?”

“Uh… nothing.” His eyebrows raise and she knows that he wants more of an explanation, ‘of course he does,’ but fortunately they both have classes to teach and he lets her continue down the hall. ‘That was definitely Scott’s voice.’

…

Kitty drops onto the couch next to Rogue and starts in on her half burnt, half raw hotdog, courtesy of Logan and his terrible grilling skills. After a few bites she nods to Rogue. “So what are you two doing tonight?”

Rogue glimpses at her boyfriend, currently absorbed with whatever hockey game is on and munching on a worryingly pink burger, and nudges him. “Bobby.”

He looks to her, eyebrows raised, then to Kitty. “What?”

“I said, ‘what are you two doing tonight?’”

“Uh, us two?” He narrows his brows in confusion. “Where are you going to be?” His eyes keep darting to the game.

“She’s going to the movies with Will, remember?”

Bobby glares, hockey and burger forgotten. “I don’t like him.”

Rogue rolls her eyes, irritated. “You’ve never met him.”

“Yeah but,” he leans forward to see Kitty better, “you have bad taste in men.”

“Says my best friend.”

“Exactly. Logan!” Logan looks over as he slides the glass door shut behind him, tray of burgers balanced in his hand. “Do you think Kitty should go out with some guy tonight?”

“Kitty should never go out with anyone. Ever.”

Kitty sighs. “Thanks, Logan.” She reaches over Rogue to steal one of his chips. “Are you done being overprotective?”

“Never. Rogue and I could go, too, it could be a double date.” Both girls scowl and he throws up his hands, “kidding.”

The game mutes itself as Scott’s voice echoes over the intercom, “all X-Men report to the war room immediately, no uniforms.”

…

She remembers when this room used to intimidate her; the cold metal of the walls and round table, the harsh lighting, the massive monitors. The sight of her old professors in uniform, faces serious. Now it feels as much a part of her home as the mansion above. She takes her seat in between Ororo and Hank, the former giving her a warm smile. “How’s your first semester going, professor?”

Kitty bites her lip, reflecting. “It feels right… Like the front of the classroom is where I belong.”

“That’s because it is.”

Scott stands and clears his throat, “there’s been an update with the Mutant Registration Act.”

CNN appears on the monitors showing Senator Kelly at a podium. “I am pleased to announce that the Mutant Registration Act passed the Senate this morning. We are one step closer to this essential bill becoming law. It is vital that the government knows who the mutants are, and above all else, what they can do, for the safety of our nation and its citizens.”

The channel switches to a stern anchor, “pro and anti-mutant demonstrations continue to spread to new cities and are expected to increase with the progress of the Mutant Registration Act. Police are concerned that the demonstrations may become violent.”

Scott mutes the monitors. “We’re now on high alert. Magneto and the Brotherhood will see this, and they’ll make a move, soon.”

“They’re hardly the only problem,” Ororo motions toward the screens where footage of demonstrations is now playing, “no mutant will give up their identity voluntarily. These demonstrations will turn violent. Where does the President stand, Hank?”

“He is currently against it, but not strongly. An attack or riot could sway him in favor. A course that now seems inevitable.”

Bobby nods to Scott, “so what’s the plan?”

“As of right now we don’t have one. We don’t know Magneto’s current location, so we have to wait for him or one of these groups to make the first move.”

Kurt flicks his tail, “should we go to these protests? Gather information?”

Jean shakes her head, “we’re too well known, we’d only act as a catalyst, and we can’t appear anti-government.”

Logan grumbles “so we’re just going to sit on our asses.”

Scott turns off the monitors and raises the lights. “That’s all we can do, for now. Afternoon classes start in ten, dismissed.”

…

Will’s hands dance animatedly as he recounts the time he was fishing for trout and caught a “very big and very angry snapping turtle. I thought he was going to bite through the boat! So my dad’s yelling ‘cut the line! Cut the line!’ But colossus there was already pulling himself up!”

Kitty cannot seem to stop smiling as she watches him. “So what did you do?”

“I grabbed the oar and managed to wrestle him out, but not before he bit through the thing. We had to paddle back with one oar, like a canoe. Took ages.”

She laughs and steals a fry from his tray. “I’ve never been fishing.”

He gently takes her hand, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I’ll take you. We can go next weekend, if you want.”

“I’d like that.”

He smiles. “Then it’s a date. Date number four.”

“Three people are hospitalized after anti-mutant protestors clash with mutants at a rally.”

They both turn to the television at the other end of the food court where footage of people beating a little green girl flashes. Another mutant appears and pulls the people off of her, flinging them away. Will sneers, “mutants.”

“What?”

He turns from the television to her, motioning at the screen, “they’re dangerous. Abominations.”

She pulls her hand away, his skin suddenly burning where it touches hers. “They’re people.”

He shakes his head, “no, they’re not. That’s the point.”

“I can’t believe you’re anti-mutant.”

Will holds his hands up, face sheepish, “I’m sorry. If it bothers you I won’t bring it up again.”

She stands, dazed. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

“No, Kitty, I’m sorry, ok? Look, I really like you. This isn’t a big deal, no two people agree on everything.”

She grabs her jacket, hand shaking. “It’s a big deal to me.”

“I get it; you have a friend that’s a mutant, or a family member. Is it Marie?”

“It’s… it’s over.”

Will stands, ready to follow, “at least let me drive you home.”

She waves him off, already pulling her phone out. “I’m fine.”

…

Bobby idly traces shapes into Rogue’s shoulder as they watch Warm Bodies, or as she attempts to watch Warm Bodies over Hank and Bobby noisily debating whether there could ever be a mutant zombie.

“But would they be contagious or-“Bobby’s pocket vibrates and he pulls his hand from around Rogue to fish his phone out. “It’s Kitty. …Hey, what’s up? …Yeah, I can come get you. Are you okay? You sure? Okay. I’ll leave right now.” He hangs up. “She needs a ride from the mall, do you want to come?”

“How does she sound?”

“Fine.”

“I’m going to stay, call it an early night.”

“Okay.”

…

He studies her as she approaches the car. At first glance she looks fine, but he has dealt with an upset Kitty enough over the eight years of their friendship to know when she is not. She shuts the door with too much force, fastens her seatbelt, and stares ahead, only looking at him when he turns off the car. “Movie was that bad, huh?” She gives him a sad smile. “He was rude? Sexist? Hates dogs?”

She lets out a gruff laugh, “he’s charming, polite, funny.” She swallows. “And he hates mutants.”

He reaches over and holds her hand, intertwining their fingers, and she finds comfort in the familiarity of his cool skin.

…

She is running, running, running. ‘No, no, no, wake up. Please wake up.” The location is different, a deteriorating skyscraper, but the stranger is the same. Instead of phasing forward they phase down, down, down, catching glimpses of mutants, some she knows, most she does not, fighting those giants.

…

They are in an industrial basement; all concrete walls and steel girders, and once again she is kneeling over the stranger’s head. This time Bobby is at her side, his head buried in her neck, breath cool against her skin, her back pressed against his chest, his hands spread over her stomach where- ‘oh God, it burns! It hurts so bad and I can’t-‘ her hands start to shake as a sob escapes her pressed lips.

“Shh, just a little longer, you’re almost there.”

“Bobby…” When did dreams ever hurt this much? She feels like she is dying.

“I’ve got you.” He presses his head closer, wraps his arms tighter.

The fire doors in front of them shake once, twice, and she feels him pull away. “Don’t, please.”

She feels him press a kiss to her head, hears him whisper words that she is not ready to hear, cannot hear over the all-encompassing pain that hits her when he pulls his hands away. She sucks in air through her clenched teeth as spots dance in her vision. Slowly her senses dull enough that she can focus, in time to watch him burn in fire.

“Bobby!”


	3. Chapter 3

Rogue drifts slowly down an isolated dormitory hall lit by a sliver of moonlight passing through the trees into the lone window, socked feet padding silently over varnished mahogany and soft rug. She has been wandering the upper level of the mansion all night, pausing at each impassable door as the voice of its occupant fills her head. 

“Why don’t you talk to me? I thought we were friends.” Kitty. She pauses, outstretched fingers grazing the cool brass knob, brows narrowed in confusion. Kitty was possibly her best, certainly her closest, friend. Not that the girl had a lot of competition. “I came here homesick and shy, remember?”

Rogue closes her eyes and finds herself in the white room again, petite fourteen-year-old Kathrine Pryde, most of her lanky form hiding in an oversized gray hoodie, standing before her. “And too smart for your own good; showing up everyone in class, I remember.”

Kitty’s lips form a small smile that fades too soon. “You helped me control my phasing, took me with you and Jubilee to the mall. You and Bobby made me feel so safe. And now you won’t talk to me.”

Rogue shakes her head, puzzled. “We talk every day. We went to the mall last week.”

Kitty folds her arms in around herself and focuses on her cracking converses, “we haven’t talked in years.”

“Kitty…” She reaches her hand out, but the scrawny fourteen-year-old has already faded away.

She opens her eyes and pulls her fingers back from the soft metal. She was unsure, when the night began, what this was; still cannot say definitively, but her powers must be advancing. ‘Some form of telepathy. Maybe I can hear peoples’ subconscious? If that’s the case then everyone seems to hate me.’ Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes and she tries to swallow around the unexpected lump in her throat, mouth suddenly dry, as her feet carry her away, their path engrained, instinctual. Hours of bitter conversations replay, unwanted, in her head. She stops in front of another door, the one she saved for last, as white surrounds her.

“Why do you push me away?”

“Bobby.” He stands before her with arms crossed, hands balled into fists, jaw clenched, eyes hard. “I don’t-” her lip trembles.

“You don’t?” He barks out a laugh. “I can’t be with you physically, and now you won’t even tell me what’s on your mind. Ever.”

Her hands tremble, “that’s not fair-”

“Fair? Eight years. On again off again on again off again. I try to be supportive, patient,” he begins pacing, voice laced with a bitterness she has never heard before, “I give you everything, and what do you give me in return? What?!”

She tries to speak over the lump in her throat, words and phrases on the tip of her tongue. But she cannot deny the truth in his words. Still, something is off about the man before her. “You’re not my Bobby.”

He stops, faces her, closes the distance between them in three strides. She wants to step back, but she is rooted by his hard eyes. “No, I’m not.”

…

Images of snowy peaks and valleys gradually fade into soft cotton sheets as he comes to. He stretches, groaning, and buries his face into his pillow. “Too early…” He starts to drift off again when a shuffling sound sluggishly enters his mind. “Go ‘way.” The sound stops in front of his door and he lifts his head, peering into the dark. His body tries to lure him back to sleep, limbs and head heavy and limp, but he manages to sit up and disentangles the sheets, curious. He pulls on a discarded white tee shirt and opens the door. “Rogue?”

She blinks, coming out of a daze, and her eyes focus on him. “Bobby.”

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He reaches forward to wipe a tear from her cheek but stills his hand millimeters from her skin, remembering himself.

She takes a step back, widening the space between them, and swipes at her own cheek. “Nothing.”

He sighs and drops his arm back to his side, “right. You can tell me, you know, I’ll always be here for that.”

“Why?”

He raises his eyebrows, “why what?”

She crosses her arms and watches the branches sway outside the window at the end of the hall. “Why are you still here?”

He mimics her, crossing his own arms, and frowns. They have had this conversation more than once, and he is too tired to argue this time. “What do you want me to say?”

She swallows, still refusing to look at him. “I think we need a break.”

“You’re breaking up with me at four in the morning? Why? What did I do?”

“I just… need to figure some things out.”

“Rogue.” He waits for her to look at him, watches the moonlight shift across her form, counts his breaths. In the end her stubbornness wins and he sighs. “You don’t have to go through everything on your own.”

“Sorry I woke you.” She starts down the hallway.

“Rogue.” She rounds the corner without looking back and he slams the door, frost crawling across the floorboards under his feet. “Fine.”

…

Bobby lounges on the couch, his feet kicked up on the beaten coffee table, and sips at his coffee while scanning the newspaper’s front page. Two ‘experts’ go head to head on the television and he peers over the top of the paper at the word ‘mutant.’

“Mutant students shouldn’t be allowed to take state and national tests; they all have a clear advantage.”

“So you’re saying they shouldn’t take the SATs or ACTs? Shouldn’t have the opportunity to go to college?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, they’re mutation gives them an unfair lead.”

“That’s ridiculous, there’s no evidence that the mutant gene increases brain power across the board.”

“But it does increase it for some mutants.”

“You can’t punish a child for being smart.”

He looks up as someone enters the rec room and attempts a smile. “Morning, Kitty, couldn’t sleep again?”

She yawns into her hand and brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear, joining him on the couch and reaching for the remote. “Do I look that bad?”

He studies her, taking in the bags under her bloodshot eyes, and decides on a lie. “You look fine, but it is before seven on a Saturday and you’re down here voluntarily, so…”

“Same goes for you.” She reads the headline under the talking heads: ‘Mutants: Too Smart for School?’ “I miss anything?”

“Apparently we are not, in fact, good professors, all our mutant students are just geniuses.” He motions at the kitchenette. “Fresh coffee.”

“Thank God.” She stands and takes his empty mug from him. “Don’t let them hear you say that. It’s hard enough to get them to do homework as is. So what are you doing up?”

“You first.”

She mechanically goes through the motions of prepping their coffee; cream, sugar, pour, mix, eyes closing as the aroma of fresh Columbian hits her. “Still bad dreams. They’re weird, though.”

He twists to see her, television forgotten, “how so?”

“I remember them.” She stills, her hands settling on the counter. “Not bits and pieces, but every moment. Especially the endings.” Her fingers wrap around the porcelain handles and she has to fight the urge to phase through them, takes a steadying breath. “Your turn.”

“Wait, how do they end?”

She crosses the room, “you know how nightmares are; they don’t make any sense. Just disturbing images. So why are you up?”

He takes his mug from her proffered hand at sets it on the coffee table, sighing. “I’m single again.”

Her mug joins his on the paper as she sits next to him. “What happened?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know, it was a very one-sided conversation.” He starts flipping through the channels, settling on the third Harry Potter and turning down the volume.

She tucks her feet up onto the couch next to her and pulls a knitted blanket over her legs. “Don’t want to talk about it?”

He looks away from the movie and catches her eyes drooping, slides down the cushions until his shoulder is aligned with her brow. “Maybe later.”

“Mmm.” Her eyelids close, drift open, close again. He gives her sleeve a gentle tug, pulling her toward him, and her head drops to his shoulder.

…

The Harry Potter instrumental theme drifts in and out of her consciousness, mixing with a low rhythmic grumbling that matches the slight rise and fall of her awkwardly firm and warm pillow. She blinks as she wakes, the end credits of Order of Phoenix coming into focus, and sits up groggily to inspect her pillow. Bobby is slouched next to her, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder, head thrown back against the back of the couch, mouth open, softly snoring. She smiles, then frowns, remembering Rogue, and slides away, his arm dropping to his side. “Bobby.”

His head jerks up as his eyes fly open. “Wha?”

“You were snoring.”

His eyes settle on her as he gains his bearings. “I don’t snore, you snore.” He scratches his beard as he studies her. “Get some sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Bad dreams?”

She reflects, eyes searching, then shakes her head, “no. No dreams.”

“Good.”

The intercom crackles as the television mutes. “X-Men report to the war room.”

…

Kitty observes Rogue, concerned; her arms are wrapped tightly around her frame, face exhausted, eyes unfocused, and rises to go to her when Scott enters.

“You’re all aware that a young girl was attacked by protestors in St. Louis yesterday?”

Jean pulls up a picture of the girl, “Kaley Mitchell, seven.” Everyone nods. “Her parents contacted us this morning, apparently last night Kaley was transferred to St. Benedict’s Specialty Hospital in Detroit, over five hundred miles away, without the parents’ permission.”

Logan lights a cigar, puffs at it a few times. “So the kid got transferred to a new hospital, so what?”

Scott’s eyebrows narrow. “So the hospital doesn’t exist, at least not under that name.”

Jean pulls up a list. “But, according to the National Medical Database, over fifty patients have been transferred there in the last six months. All known mutants.”

Kitty zooms in on the list in front of her, scanning the names. “Why didn’t we pick up on this before?”

Jean highlights the patients’ ages. “The rest of the patients were adults, all over twenty, Kaley is the first minor.”

Hank clears his throat and pulls up another list of names. “Interestingly the name St. Benedict’s Specialty Hospital came up in another database search. Prisoner transfers.”

Bobby rubs his cheek. “Let me guess, all mutants?”

Hank nods. “Correct, over one hundred. But what are they doing with them?”

Logan rolls his eyes. “We all know what they’re doing. They’re experimenting on them. On us. Where are they?”

Scott pulls up a satellite image of scattered buildings. “Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.”

Logan snorts. “Great, so we break out a hundred and fifty mutants and then what, leave them on an island to get picked up again?”

“As of right now the only one we’re rescuing is Kaley-” the room erupts with voices shouting over one another, “stop, stop! We can’t release a hundred prisoners!”

“Even if they’re being tortured?”

“We can’t leave them!”

“This is wrong!”

Scott slams his hands against the table. “We can’t! This is information gathering and single rescue only! End of discussion! Storm, Beast, Nightcrawler, Shadowcat, Iceman, suit up!”

Rogue and Logan both stand “I’m not going?” “Scott!”

“Everyone else dismissed!” Scotts stalks out of the room, flustered.


	4. Chapter 4

Kitty idly reads through the thin mission debriefing packet for a third time, tired and bored, when a photo of the camp gates catches her eye. She pulls it out of the stack and inspects the chain-link fence, the guard tower, traces the barbed wire with her finger, reads the fuzzy sign “…camp x-ray.”

Bobby reaches his hand across the jet’s aisle and rests it on her shoulder, making her jump, and raises his eyebrows when she looks at him. “You okay? You’ve been staring that picture down for the last five minutes.”

She blinks away the haze and gives him a weak smile, “yeah, I just…” She holds up the picture for him to see, “I feel like I know this place.”

He takes in the photograph, searching for any familiarity, finds none. “Those gates are pretty generic.”

“Yeah but…” She hesitates, slips the photograph back into the folder. “It’s nothing.”

“Humor me?”

A sigh escapes her. “It’s just… I can picture them from the other side, looking out.” His brow narrows in confusion but she presses forward before he can say anything, opening the folder and holding up another photograph; a zoomed in shot of a lone building surrounded by watch towers. “And this one, this building,” her fingers tremble and she sets it down so that he will not see, “I feel pain… and fear. When I look at it.”

“Kitty, are you sure you’re-”

“Landing in five,” Ororo’s voice cuts sharply through the hollow cabin, “starting our storm cover.”

Hank flips a switch and takes over the controls as black storm clouds swirl into existence around them, “local time is 22:15, rendezvous back on the jet at 23:00. Kaley’s mission priority one, intelligence two. No matter who or what we find in there, we don’t deviate from the mission. Yes?”

“Yes.” “Yep.” “Ja.”

Hank looks over his shoulder, chair half swiveled, and levels them with a stern glare. “Seriously.”

“Relax, Beast, Logan’s not here.” Bobby flashes him a grin as he and Kitty pull on their leather gloves.

“Right. Fair enough.” He swivels back around. “I’ll disrupt the security camera feed from here, stay in the shadows, and expect heavy resistance.” The jet lands with a slight roll and they unbuckle and stand, checking their gear as the ramp lowers. Hank gives them a final nod, a shouted “good luck” lost in the gale.

…

Kurt, Kitty, Ororo, and Bobby jog, crouched low, arms held over their heads in a pathetically ineffective attempt to block the stinging rain and gusty wind, to the end of a patch of dense foliage a hundred yards from the main gate. Bobby unclips a night vision monocular from his belt and peers through the lens, zooming in once. His eye gradually adjusts to the rainy haze and green tint, buildings and figures coming into focus. “Looks like the guards are in pairs, huddled in doorways, no one’s walking; rain’s definitely working.” He zooms in on the closest tower guard, the man’s upper torso filling the lens. “Rifle, side arm, taser. No military insignia.”

Ororo observes through her own scope. “I count a dozen. Far less than we anticipated.”

“This does not make sense.” They look to Kurt, who motions at the camp. “How do a chain fence, a few steel buildings, and maybe thirty guards keep a hundred and fifty mutants prisoner?”

Kitty rubs at her neck with a gloved hand as an image of a collared Ororo flashes on the backs of her eyelids. “Whatever the answer, it can’t be good.”

Bobby lowers his monocular and points at two buildings silhouetted against the turbulent sky. “Kurt, can you teleport us between those two hangers from here?”

Kurt squints, trying to see through the rain, and makes out the buildings. “One at a time, ja.”

Bobby nods and turns to Kitty. “You go first.”

…

They drop three feet to land roughly on rapidly muddying ground, the distinct sound of their arrival disguised by rolling thunder, and Kitty steadies herself against one of the hangers.

Kurt releases her arm and casts his eyes on the ground, sheepish, “sorry, it was hard to judge from such distance.”

She ducks so that she can catch his eye and gives him a reassuring smile. “You did fine, Kurt.”

“Danke, Kitty.” Another shudder of thunder starts and he disappears in a puff of sulfur.

She stands upright, feet slipping against the mud, and scouts what little of the courtyard she can see from between the structures; squints into the blackness, hand shielding her eyes, holds her breath. A tall figure darts between the hangers, its red eyes and collar illuminated by a flash of lightning. She swallows, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. ‘The man from my dreams.’ She lurches forward one step, then two when a hand wraps around her arm and jerks her back.

“Kitty. We should wait.”

“Storm. Sorry.”

Kurt and Bobby appear next to them, landing softly, and Ororo loosens the grip on her arm, signals toward the hanger on their left. “We’ll start with this one.”

“And we’ll take this one,” Bobby looks at his watch. “We’ve got thirty five minutes, if you get into trouble,” he taps the metal X on his chest, “otherwise see you back on the plane.” He nods to each of them, gaze lingering on Kitty as she and Ororo phase through the bunker.

…

Blinding light hits her eyes and she covers them, temporarily defenseless, feels, Ororo’s hand dropping from her arm. She listens to the piercing echo of rain on the aluminum roof, takes in the hushed murmurs of voices as she waits for her eyes to adjust.

“Kitkat.”

She squints her eyes open just enough to see floor to ceiling bars in front of her, takes in the cement walls on either side, when a figure sitting on a narrow bed in a cell across from her catches her eye. “John. Or do you prefer Pyro now?”

“No talking!”

John stands up from his bunk and crosses his cell to lean against the bars, points his thumb, “I can’t wait to catch up, but you might want to take care of him first.”

Rapid footsteps resonate against steel and aluminum as a young guard slides to a stop in front of their otherwise empty cell, his berretta drawn and aiming back and forth, “who’re you two?” An image of his face contorted in a brutal snarl flashes across her mind as a glint of light catches the taser on his belt, drawing her eye, and the ghost of an electric shock dances across her nerves, filling her with a foreign, instinctive anger.

Ororo’s voice faintly strains over the sound of adrenaline laced blood pumping in her ears; “he’s all yours.”

She jerks her arm past the bars and grabs the guard’s collar, the yank causing his finger to lurch against the trigger, and he watches, stunned, as the bullet phases through her and punctures the steel wall, her grip temporarily loosened. “Mutant!” His other hand stumbles blindly for the taser as she yanks him through and slams his head against the cinderblock. His limp body slowly sags down the wall and slumps over, berretta skating to a stop against her boot.

John flicks his lighter, eyebrows raised, “that was violent.”

She watches, dazed, as Ororo bends down and checks him over, focuses on her slowing heart rate, shies her gaze from the wet red on the wall. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“Trust me, he deserved it. Worst one here.” He clicks his tongue. “Key card’s in his breast pocket. What do you say, ladies, let me out?”

Ororo pulls the keycard out of the guard’s pocket, removes his taser, and gathers his gun, “he’ll have a concussion, but he’ll live.” She settles a firm hand on Kitty’s shoulder, pulling the girl from her somber thoughts, “don’t feel too bad about it, Logan would be impressed.” Her fingers deftly slip the card through the reader and give the hefty door a firm push, “as I am.”

Kitty follows her into the narrow hall, abruptly thankful that it is Ororo with her; a woman who has fought violently for the right to live, and not one of the more idealistic X-Men. She swings the door shut behind her, glances down at the unnervingly familiar guard, and phases her hand through the lock, frying the mechanism.

“That was cool,” he nods his head toward his lock, “so you wanna…”

Ororo twirls the keycard through her fingers, scrutinizing her former student. “Your name wasn’t on our lists. How’d you get in here?”

He shrugs, “Would you believe on purpose?” Smiles. “Magneto wanted information, it was supposed to be a quick in and out job. Didn’t know about these.” He holds up his right wrist adorned with a blinking silver band.

Ororo’s hand drops to her side, card forgotten, and leans forward. “What is that?”

He shakes his wrist, the band knocking with a thump against his enflamed, irritated skin, “I’ll give you two three guesses.”

Kitty rubs at her neck again, the ghost of a similar device biting into her skin, sees her fingers clenching chain link that she cannot phase through. “A power inhibitor.”

He grins at her. “First try, still sharp as ever.” He lowers his wrist, his left hand massaging the raw sores. “So why are you here? I assume it’s not to free your old friend John.”

Kitty phases her hand into her uniform and pulls out a picture of Kaley, holds it up to him. “They brought a little girl here yesterday.”

His smile fades, expression grave. “Kidnapping children, that’s new. Kitty,” he waits for her to look at him, “you have to get her out of here.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Came in yesterday?” She nods. He points to the front of the hanger. “There’s a building across the courtyard; the infirmary, has the red cross over the door. She’ll be in there.” They both look down as his locking mechanism gives a soft click and Ororo tugs the door open. “Didn’t think you’d actually let me out.”

“We’re short on time, and you know the place.” She tosses the taser and berretta onto his bunk. “Let’s go.”

“You goin’ to take off wit’out introducing these beautiful ladies, mon ami?”

John rolls his eyes and sighs, “Kitty, Storm,” he waves vaguely at the cell next to his, “Remy LeBeau.”


	5. Chapter 5

John combs a hand through his greasy hair as he steps out of his cell, brings his fingers down to absentmindedly rub at his swollen wrist. “They’ll know you’re here when we enter the infirmary, and they won’t be happy about it, so we should release everyone now.” He catches Kitty staring, curious, at his bracelet and rolls his eyes, offering his wrist to her. “There’s a master switch in the guard’s office at the end of the hanger.”

Kitty gently pulls his hand to her eye level and inspects the silver band, mindful of his tender skin, “do you know how to deactivate them?”

“What, no ‘how’ve you been John?’ ‘Great to see you, John?’” He clicks his tongue and gives her a wink as she and Ororo roll their eyes. “I’ve never seen one taken off;” shrugs and grins, lowers his voice conspiratorially, “I think they’re supposed to be kind of a permanent thing.”

Kitty fights the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes again, “I’m shocked.”

“Ironic phrasing, dat.” Remy knocks his own bracelet against his bars, smirking, “it give a nice jolt, too. Knocked Johnny out t’ree hours first night here.”

Kitty furrows her brow, fingers drifting to the back of her neck as the faint ghost of a shock travels up her spine, “like a taser?”

John gives her a somber smile as he rotates his wrist, revealing two small blisters at the base of his palm. She and Ororo lean in for a closer look, Kitty hovering her hand over them before reaching for the bracelet, fingers stopping just shy of the metal, “do you mind if I…?”

John nods permission. “You know, Kitkat, I can’t help but feel like you’re only interested in my accessory.” He gives her another wink.

Kitty lets out an exasperated sigh, “oh how I’ve missed you, Allerdyce.” She carefully pulls the bracelet up and away from his skin, exposing two rounded tips protruding from the inner band. “Anti-tamper?”

“An’ remote activated, if de guard so chooses.” Remy cracks his neck and nods to Ororo, “you goin’ t’ let me out, chere?”

Ororo straightens and steps in front of his cell, twirling the key card between her fingers as she eyes the Cajun warily, debating her words. “We can’t release everyone.”

John jerks his hand away from Kitty’s and shields it against his chest, temper sparking, “what? Why not?” He strides over to Ororo and steps in front of her, nostrils flaring.

Kitty rests a hand on his shoulder, tries to head off his temper, “we only have the jet and we can’t remove the bracelets.”

His eyes dart between the women, anxious, “believe me, they’d still be better off-“

Ororo cuts him off, voice stern, “you want us to leave a hundred and fifty defenseless mutants, most of them members of the US prison system, on a hostile island with a US military base?”

John shrugs Kitty’s hand off of his shoulder and steps forward, closing the distance between him and Ororo. The muscles of his jaw jump under his pale skin, fists clenching, “you-”

“She’s right, Johnny, dat be a fight for another time.”

Ororo narrows her eyes, her own jaw twitching, “you still helping us?”

John licks his lips and steps back, nods, “for the girl.” He turns and glares at Remy. “And I wish you’d stop calling me that.” Remy shrugs as Ororo starts to slip the keycard into her pocket, but John shakes his head and sighs, puffing his cheeks. “No, bring him with.” Both women raise their eyebrows, “he’s a professional thief.”

…

Remy stands over the two freshly incapacitated guards slumped outside of the steel door, hand shielding his face from the stinging rain, and waves the others forward. “Is clear.” A chunk of hail hits his temple and he lets out a string of curses. “Remy suddenly regrets leavin’ de dry cell.”

John shoulders past him and kicks one of the guard’s feet together, “we’ll gladly put you back, but you could use the shower, Cajun.” 

“’Fraid we in dis together, Johnny,” Remy shoulders John back as he and Ororo grab a pair of booted feet each and drag the bodies inside, abandoning them on the concrete floor and.

“Stop calling me that.”

Ororo tugs the door shut behind her, “keep it up and I’ll put you both back.”

Kitty steps away from Remy and John as they start to bicker, out of the soft ring of light spilling from the dull bulb above the door and into the shadows, tries to peer through the blackness dotted with yellow glowing orbs; buildings and watchtowers. A flickering orb with a hint of red catches her eye and she squints; trying to make out the cross, when two shadows briefly block the light. She crouches and hisses over her shoulder, “someone’s coming.”

John, Remy, and Ororo dart into the shadows, argument forgotten, and she turns back to the darkness, muscles taut. Holds her breath.

“Kitty, Storm! That you?”

Kitty’s shoulders slump as she exhales and stands, “Bobby.”

Bobby stumbles into the edge of the light, Kurt close behind, their feet slipping against the mud. “Did you find- John? What the hell are you doing here? And who’s that guy?”

John steps into view and extends his hand to his former friend, palm out, wincing as the rain pelts his raw skin, “Remy, and offering my help, if you’ll take it.” He tries to swallow away the sudden dryness of his tongue; unexpectedly nervous, watches Bobby’s gaze travel from his outstretched hand to his own eyes, searching, before settling on something over his right shoulder. Bobby’s eyebrows raise in question and John cocks his head to see Kitty give a small nod.

Bobby nods back and looks back to John, grasping his hand firmly, “the infirmary?”

“The infirmary.”

…

Her chest constricts with each forced step, blood pounding in her ears, breath labored, as the dimly lit red cross fades in and out of view with the shifting rain. With every exhale, every flex of her muscles forward, every rushed beat of her heart, she fights against her most primal instincts begging her to turn back. She shuts her eyes, mouth dry, and shuffles blindly on, boots sinking, sticking into the mud, when she feels a familiar gloved hand slip into hers, fingers carding through her own.

His cool breath curls around her ear, goosebumps forming in its wake, “what’s wrong?”

They slow to a stop, shoulders and arms and hands touching, and she breathes him in, forces her eyes open. The steel building floods her vision and she feels her heart rate spike, digs her toes into her boots to keep her rooted as a nightmarish terror grips her, clutches his fingers, shakes her head. “I don’t know.” Tries to swallow. “I’ll be okay.”

Ororo swipes the keycard through the pad once, twice, levels the unchanging red dot with a stern glare. “Bobby, you’re up.”

He hesitates, his thumb brushing anxiously across her knuckles, “maybe you should stay…”

“I’m fine,” she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze before slipping her fingers out of his. “Promise. We’re running out of time.”

Bobby glances at his watch, brushes her fingers as he steps forward; the same way he did in her dream, and places his hand against the center of the steel doors, glancing at John as the other man steps up to his side. “You ready?”

John studies the taser in his hand, cracks his neck, “let’s get this over with.”

Bobby nods and closes his eyes, feels his ice slowly creep through the seam and into the metal lock, seeks out pores and scratches. Fills and expands crevices and craters.

John taps his foot, sighs. “Can you actually get metal cold enough or…?”

Bobby pulls his hand away and grabs one of the door handles, yanking it back. Ice and metal shatter out of the seam. “Guess I can.”

John shrugs and charges the taser as Bobby holds the door slightly ajar. “Not bad.”

Bobby feels pressure pushing from the other side and nods to John before letting the door swing out. A guard emerges, gun drawn, and John grabs him by his collar, tasing his jugular, catches the second guard on the back of the neck as he trips over his unconscious partner. “Kitty, Kurt.”

…

The harsh fluorescent bulbs blind her, forcing her eyes shut, as she stumbles through the doorway, ice fragments shattering under her boots. She is barely over the threshold when the smell overwhelms her; blood and starch, vomit and bleach, and she gags, stomach churning. Images of needles and restraints flash across her eyelids. ‘I know this room.’

“Kitty, the girl.”

She blinks away the visions, takes a steadying breath through her mouth, and allows herself to look around. The sterile room, already small, is claustrophobically packed with cabinets, tables, cots, and machines while every usable inch of surface or wall space is covered with medical equipment. Her eyes instinctively travel to the back corner and pick out three items among the clutter; a computer; an open document sitting in wait on the monitor, a filing cabinet; its open padlock on top, and a small refrigerator; thumb scanner positioned next to the handle. A man limps listlessly into view, his timeworn body supported by an aluminum cane, and sets a steaming mug next to the mouse before looking over to her. Kitty gasps, “Trask.”

A shift of blue catches her eye as Kurt fidgets beside her and Trask fades away, the mug remaining. ‘Focus.’ She tries to take in the rest of the room, blinks away figures and ghosts, before turning to Kurt. “Where?” He points to the far corner where a limp green girl is strapped to an operating chair. “Kaley.”

“She is not alone.”

Her eyes shift from the chair to the lumpy cots beside it and it takes her a few seconds to recognize the small curled bulges on the cots for what they are; more children. She clenches her fists, body filling with fury.

“Kitty, Kurt?” Ororo’s voice drifts into the room.

Kitty has to clear her throat twice before she can trust her voice, tries to steady her breathing, examines the steam rising off of the mug, “clear, but you guys better get in here.”

More ice crunches and shatters as the other four enter, temporarily interrupting the eerie silence. Bobby appears next to her, hand rubbing his beard, his voice startling her out of her thoughts. “This place is packed, where do we start?”

Ororo steps forward and crosses her arms, eyes scanning, “did you find Kaley?”

“Ja, the children are back there.”

She raises her eyebrows as her eyes settle on the girl, shift to the cots, “plural?”

“Ja, three I think.”

“Okay, here’s the plan; Bobby, John, Kurt, you get the kids and head for the jet.” She looks over her shoulder at Remy, “can you get files off of the computer?”

Remy pulls a flash drive from his waistband and winks. “For you, chere, anyt’ing.”

John wrinkles his nose. “I don’t even want to know where you were keeping that.”

Ororo raises an eyebrow, “John.”

“Kids,” he waves her off as he starts for the far corner, “yeah yeah I got it.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, lets out a sigh, and turns to the physics professor, “Kitty, you and I have the physical evidence.”

…

Kitty wrenches open the top drawer of the cabinet, tugging as it snags against its rusted rails, and runs her fingers over the manila folder tabs, familiar names popping out at her. “Looks like they have a file for every mutant here.” She pulls the hefty file of Lucas Bishop out and flips through it, “medical records, family records, detailed description of abilities, test results.” She phases into her uniform and pulls out a small camera, snaps a picture of each page. “They did blood draws, spinal taps, skin scrapings, bone marrow draws…” Another file joins the first, and then another, “…on every single one.”

Ororo opens a cabinet, her upper torso disappearing as she starts to dig, “samples must be in the fridge.”

Kitty puts the folders back and snaps a picture of the tabs. “Too small, probably just has the latest ones.”

Remy watches the file transfer bar, fingers drumming against the keyboard, sniffs at the mug of coffee. “We could destroy de files, break de fridge, non?”

She closes the drawer and stands, starts opens the next set of cabinets. “They’d just repeat the tests.”

“Tests.” Remy spits. “It was torture.”

“We can at least take a few of these,” Ororo reappears from the cabinet holding three bracelets.

…

Bobby kneels next to one of the cots and delicately pulls back the threadbare blanket, eyes widening as he takes in the thin boy curled in on himself underneath. “Kurt, get Kaley, John-”

“The other cot, already on it.”

Kurt stands, knees locked, and observes Kaley, his feet refusing to move. “I am not so good with children.”

Bobby deftly removes one of his gloves as he studies the boy’s chest, “you work at a school. Besides, you’re rescuing her, not babysitting her.” He reaches out and gently shakes the boy’s shoulder, “hey, can you hear me?”

Kurt stares, “…is he?”

Bobby rests two ungloved fingers against the boy’s neck, holds his breath. “He’s alive, John?”

“Mine’s faint, but it’s there.”

Bobby tenderly scoops the boy into his arms and brings him to his chest, “Kurt, hurry up!”

“Ja. Ja.” Kurt crosses over to Kaley and carefully shakes her shoulder, “wake up, little girl.” Her head rolls forward, her chin settling on her chest. “What now?”

John rolls his eyes as he picks up the third child, “shake harder.”

Kurt jostles her shoulder again, “little girl…”

She blinks sleepily, lifting her head, and takes in the mutant in front of her. “You’re blue.”

Kurt looks at his hand on her shoulder, “uh… ja.”

“I’m green.”

“Ja. We are quite a pair.” She grins and he smiles back as he starts unbuckling her straps.

“Are you taking me somewhere?”

“Somewhere safe.”

Her head rolls as she lets out a long yawn. “I’m sleepy.”

Bobby glances at the boys limp in his and John’s arms, “must be drugged.”

John rolls his eyes again, “thanks for that. You ready, Nightcrawler?”

Kurt scoops the newly unconscious Kaley into his arms and stands. “Ja.”

“Then let’s go before more-”

A shrill bang pierces the air followed by a cry from Bobby as he stumbles back into the cot, blood splattering the wall behind him, the small boy still sheltered in his arms.


	6. Chapter 6

Her feet lurch her forward, toward the cot, toward Bobby, as a familiar hand on her shoulder attempts to yank her back; keep her shielded. She phases, bullets rippling through her stomach and embedding into the computer, shattering the mug, and stumbles once, twice as Ororo’s fingers slide through her. The room shifts hues with each step; false memory and reality clashing, merging, ripping. Tools fade and reappear on the walls while bodies fill the seat Kaley once occupied; Ororo, face contorted in a silent scream, Jubilee, unconscious, caked in blood and sweat, others she has never met.

Someone calls her name; a faint echo mixing with muted scrapes and scuffles on the edge of her consciousness, another gunshot, as her vision narrows to Bobby, slumped over, the bundle slipping from his arms, chest blossoming red. She blinks and he shatters, blinks again and he burns.

‘Wake up wake up wake up-’

…

The searing burn of the bullet threads across his chest, creeps up his neck and down into his stomach, ignites every nerve in his right arm to his fingertips, and he cannot will his grip to stop from going lax, feels the boy start to slip.

John is yelling at him, at Kurt, the words mixing with the ringing in his ears into a warped melody that lulls him toward unconsciousness. Bobby sees Kurt shake his head, try to yell back, but John is shoving his own sleeping cargo into the German’s already full arms, and then he and Remy are dropping to the ground; withering.

His vision blurs and he feels more than hears Kurt’s distinct pop next to him, smells sulfur, feels the boy shifting away from his chest as his head droops. Another pop and then blue hands wrap around the bundle that seeps red. He tries to process, but his thoughts are weighted, distant, and it hurts to breathe.

“Kitty!” More gunshots.

His head snaps up, neck screaming in protest, and suddenly, finally he feels the familiar adrenaline lacing through his veins, clearing his mind.

Bobby’s eyes focus on John spasming at his feet, dart across the room, glancing at Remy twitching uncontrollably, rubber soles scuffing the tile, then to Ororo scuffling with a guard, his discarded pistol at their feet. He takes in a second guard in the doorway, left hand on the trigger of his taser and right hand tracking Kitty with his pistol.

Ice shoots across the floor and wraps up the guard’s legs, around his torso, down his arms, up his neck, skin turning blue and brittle, and the taser and side arm clatter against the tile.

John and Remy slowly still as Ororo delivers a final blow; an elbow to the guard’s temple, and suddenly Kitty is in front of him; her palms on his cheeks, his shoulders, his neck. He watches her fingers as they keep phasing through him, grasping desperately at his solid form, takes in her glazed eyes, her moving lips.

“Wake up wake up wake up-”

“Kitty,” he sluggishly lifts his left hand until it hovers between them, gritting against the pain, “Focus. Breathe.“

She glances at his hand, his shoulder, his face, fingers desperately seeking touch, “wake up, please.”

“Katherine.” Her eyes snap to his and he manages a shallow inhale, a slow exhale. “Touch my hand.” Her fingers ghost his palm, half solid, “breathe.”

She exhales with him, her eyes finding their hands, and the glaze disappears.

…

Kitty yanks a medical bag down from one of the metal cabinets, lets it flop onto an empty seat, fingers trembling as she unzips it, and finds a child’s blood pressure cuff. She looks around the cabin, reorienting herself, while she waits for her hands to stop shaking.

Ororo sits in the pilot’s seat, talking into her headset, and rubs at a forming bruise on her arm, features cast in sharp shadow from the glow of the controls, while Kurt tests Remy’s mental status a few seats away, the two stumbling over medical terminology and thick accents.

“What is the date?” Kurt shines a light into one eye, then the other.

Remy bats the flashlight away, “Remy ne sait pas, Remy was in prison until a few hours ago, oui?”

Bobby lets out a huff of a laugh immediately followed by a groan, but gives her a small smirk when their eyes meet. She tries to return it, swallows against the lump in her throat. Hank is methodically stitching the still dribbling bullet hole just below his right clavicle, large hands steady and precise, glasses perched at the tip of his scrunched nose, while Bobby bites back grunts. His uniform top has been cut open, pooling around his stomach, and she has to look away from the fresh trail of red cutting through the dried blood that coats his chest.

An image of her kneeling in front of Bobby, hand gently swiping his bloody chest and stomach with a frayed cloth as he cards cool fingers through her hair, flashes across her mind and she tries to shake it away. John moans, unconscious, near the sleeping children, pulling her attention, and she steps around him to take their vitals.

”So what the hell happened?“ Hank asks, loud enough for everyone to hear as he threads another stitch, but no one answers.

Kitty scratches numbers onto a sheet, counts a pulse with fingers pressing lightly on a boy’s neck, watches his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. Tries to remember. She remembers touching Bobby’s hand, finding John before that, hallucinating the man from her dreams in the rain. But how they got out, when they took off? She has no idea.

She will have to write a full report when she gets back, will be medically evaluated and debriefed, and will have to admit, out loud, to people that she has admired for almost a decade, that something is very wrong with her. That she failed on the mission. That if they cannot fix it, fix her, then she will have to resign from the x-men. Her stomach knots.

…

Bobby bites his lip as Kurt helps him slip his right arm into a plaid flannel button down he had found tucked in a cabinet, forgotten, manages to get his left arm through without pulling his stitches, although some of the words that rush out of his mouth make Kurt’s eyes widen. It is one of Logan’s, because of course it is, simultaneously too large and too small, but soft from years of washes and warm against his skin.

Kurt waits until he is done swearing before he helps him button the shirt up to his sturnum, stopping at the bandages, and steps away to let Hank drape a sling over his shoulder. His vision flashes red as Hank slips his arm in and adjusts it, but he bites back another round of cursing, “ooh that’s tender.”

“Local’s probably wearing off,” Hank shuffles around in his medical kit, pulling out a few medicine bottles and holding them in front of his nose to read the labels, “need some more painkillers? Scott will want you fully cognizant for your debriefing but,” he tilts his head and looks over his glasses at Bobby, eyebrow raised, “you’re the one who got shot.”

He waves the bottle off and stands, eyes finding Kitty sitting on the floor of the cargo area, back leaning against the cool hull, eyes closed, “I know you need the story yourself but…”

Hank follows his gaze, sighs, “something is wrong with Kitty.”

He nods, “yeah.”

Hank removes his glasses and starts to gather up the used equipment, “do you want me to come with?” But Bobby has already crossed the cabin.

…

He carefully slides down next to her and leans back. His neck and shoulders bunch in protest and he hisses as he settles, rethinking those painkillers. She opens her eyes and watches him, concerned, and he reaches out into the space between them, searching for her hand. He knows before he touches her that his fingers will phase through her palm, knows that she will come back to herself when she is ready, “hey.”

After a few beats she threads her fingers with his, mostly solid, finds comfort in the familiar ritual. It takes her a long time to find her voice. “You deserve an explanation.”  
He lets his hand cool against hers; she told him once, when they were both younger and their abilities untamed, that the contrasting sensation helped her gain control. He hopes that it helps again now, “you don’t owe me anything.”

“You’re in them.” She pauses, swallows, tries again, “they’re about you.”

“Your dreams.”

“Hmm.”

He brushes his thumb over her knuckles, “you said that you remember the endings.” She hums agreement again. He licks his lips, “how do they end?”

She closes her eyes, her hand fading in and out of his, “you die.”

The answer, the rawness in her voice as she says it, the hairs that stand up on the back of his neck, all catch him off guard. She slowly reaches her other hand across them to touch his right thumb tentatively and he flexes the fingers of his right arm against hers, feels the fresh ache even in his fingertips, “and then I got shot.” He shifts his side toward her until their arms are millimetres apart, giving her the option to close the distance, and after a heartbeat she leans against him. “…But you were shaken before that.”

She sighs, shoulders slouching in exhaustion, “I… I don’t know what’s wrong. The dreams are more like memories. They’re so real. I haven’t slept.“

The muscles in his jaw jump; he should have talked to Jean or Ororo about switching her out, should have insisted that she go to the professor. He had been distracted with Rogue and the briefings and his classes, had noticed the circles under her eyes days after they first appeared. He had fought down his overprotective streak when he should have at the very least made sure that she got some sleep. “And the camp… I knew it. I knew that building, but it was different, like…” She rests her head on his shoulder and purses her lips in frustration when the words do not come to her, “I can’t explain any of it because I don’t know what it is.”

Bobby closes his own eyes, disquieted, “Charles will help. We’ll figure this out.“ He is fatigued to the point of collapse, could not force his muscles to get him up from this spot if the plane caught on fire, and she must be worse. He gently rests his head against hers. “We’re still a few hours away, you should try to get some sleep.”

Kitty tries to pull away, the idea settling like a weight on her chest, but he squeezes her hand, solid in his, and she squeezes back as she tries to breathe. “I don’t want to dream.”

He nods, chin brushing the tip of her ear, and swallows down empty promises that she won’t, says only “okay.“

The plane hums around them as he syncs their breaths, draws cool circles with his thumb over her knuckles. He feels her relax into his side, a little more with each exhale, hears her breathing even out, and lets himself follow her into sleep.


End file.
